


anomie

by Ryodan



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Diplomacy, Grieving, Guilt, More tags later, Multi, Post-Canon Fix-It, Rebuilding, Recovery, Slow Burn, let them be happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryodan/pseuds/Ryodan
Summary: Sakakura Juzo knew his place in the old world. Right-hand man of Munakata Kyosuke, head of the Sixth Division of the Future Foundation, former Ultimate Boxer. Second place to Yukizome Chisa.The world Naegi Makoto ushers in with the fall of Despair and rise of Hope is not the world he knew. Yukizome is dead, as is most of the Future Foundation's leadership. The Ultimate Despairs have been redeemed but are still on the run. Munakata, the one constant in his life, has changed irrevocably. And if he wants to keep up, he might need to change, too.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I watched all of DR and DR3 over a course of maybe two weeks? I don't remember, it's all a bit blurry.  
> Anyways, I just had to make these two have a happy ending, but My Shit Brain won't let me write anything nice and short like all the other cool kids. So here, have the first installment in what is sure to be a wild fucking ride!
> 
> Title is from [this song](http://en.musicplayon.com/amazarashi-Anomie-%E3%82%A2%E3%83%8E%E3%83%9F%E3%83%BC-Music-Video-112637.html). According to dictionary.com, anomie means "social instability resulting from a breakdown of standards and values", or "personal unrest, alienation, and anxiety that comes from a lack of purpose or ideals". Fitting for Dangan Ronpa of all things, isn't it?

The harsh white light that greets his eyes when he wakes up is familiar, intimately so, as is the pain lancing through his body. It says something about his life, Juzo thinks, that the sight waiting for him after death is yet another fucking hospital room. At least they could have had the grace to take away the part where he feels like he just sawed off his own hand after being run through by a flaming katana. 

He tries moving an arm, and his senses are flooded with fire. It is much, much worse than anything he has ever woken up to before - all the boxing injuries, the innumerable times he’s torn his knuckles open on concrete and brick walls, all the wounds from minor scratches to sword slashes that cut to the bone, cannot compare to the distinct lack of a hand. Defeated, he relaxes the arm, grits his teeth, tries to ride out the waves of pain radiating through his body.

Only now does he register the presence of someone else in the room, but not for long - the door is closing on their retreating back. It shuts before he can even consider croaking out a greeting or a demand for explanation, but Juzo would recognize that shock of silver-white hair anywhere and the accompanying pang that claws at his chest. 

Fuck. He would much rather be dead than have to deal with Munakata Kyosuke - cold, broken, beautiful Munakata, the one thing he could never have. He closes his eyes to the fluorescent lighting, falls back on the scratchy hospital linens. Of course this would happen to him. The world has never favored Sakakura Juzo. Why would the afterlife be any better?

The next time he wakes up, there is someone else in the room that is decidedly not Munakata, a fact for which Juzo is both relieved and, maybe, a little disappointed. This time, it is a figure in pressed blue scrubs and a facemask, impersonal and matter-of-fact as they rattle off a list of damages. Puncture wound to the abdomen. Severe second degree burns. Puncture wound to the shoulder, barely missing the bone. Amputated left hand. Massive blood loss. He would have died, the nurse says, if someone of extreme medical skill had not found him. Mikan Tsumiki is suspected, but nobody saw her. Either way, he should consider himself lucky.

Mikan Tsumiki. He thinks of a woman only three years younger than him, eyes glowing despair-red in blurry footage from an overcrowded hospital, holding a syringe in practiced fingers. Mikan Tsumiki, former Ultimate Nurse turned Ultimate Despair. 

He thinks, for the umpteenth time, that he would much rather be dead than in pieces, indebted to a Despair. 

The nurse doesn’t try to entertain his silence. She sets down a tray with something in a bowl and a cup of water, messes with the IV attached to his arm, and hurries out. Juzo watches her leave, watches the door close yet again. He forces himself to reach for the water. It hurts like hell to even attempt moving. 

The pain is nothing compared to the shock of realizing that his hand is _gone_. There is only a bandaged stump now, and he remembers - remembers sawing it off with a knife wrenched from someone’s corpse, remembers telling himself, even as the knife scraped bone and every nerve in his body screamed, that he was doing it for Munakata, remembers dragging himself across the facility while leaving a trail of dark red like wounded prey making a desperate escape from the hunter.

He forgets the water, slumps back onto the pillows and stares at the ceiling. The tiles and lights are unforgiving, unwelcoming, and he stares at them until his eyes close, with bright white still seared into his retinas.

Days pass. He doesn’t know how many, nor does he care. Time passes in fits of sleep, interspersed with waking moments in which blue-clad figures that may or may not have been the same wander in and out of the room, changing bandages and leaving food that goes barely touched. His only consolation is the increased dose of painkillers they’re giving him. There’s certainly less pain, and he spends much less time fully lucid. Before, he might have cared, might have minded being defenseless and unable to think clearly. Now, after playing Junko Enoshima’s game and ultimately losing, he welcomes not having to deal with the world.

At some point, the door opens yet again. Juzo happens to be awake, for once, but he keeps his eyes closed. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep, the nurse won’t try to talk to him. 

It isn’t the nurse that speaks to him, though. “Don’t try to pretend you’re asleep,” says Munakata. 

Oh, fuck. He really has no choice, then. Munakata was always commanding, controlling, in a way that he could never resist. 

Juzo opens his eyes, searches the room briefly to find him sitting in one of the shitty armchairs in the corner. The former Ultimate Student Council President looks so different from when Juzo last saw him. His one remaining eye is its regular ice blue, and the other one is closed, a jagged red scar running over it. He wears a jeans and faded t-shirt with a nondescript jacket thrown over, the most casual Juzo has ever seen him since high school. Even his usually cold, blank expression has softened into something more neutral.  
This is not the Munakata Kyosuke that entered the Final Killing Game with him and the other members of the Future Foundation. This is definitely not the Munakata Kyosuke that confronted him in the hallway, sword drawn and eye darkened with hatred. He doesn’t know where this conversation will go - he is the same as always, but Munakata is definitely not.

Juzo makes eye contact with him, slowly, almost like a challenge. If he interprets it as such, Kyosuke doesn’t respond to it. Instead, he settles back into the armchair. “Hello, Sakakura.” 

“Munakata,” he replies, taken aback by how rusty his voice sounds. It sounds almost like a croak. “You’re alive.”

“As are you,” Kyosuke says, stiffly. “How are you feeling?”

At this, Juzo raises an eyebrow. Wasn’t this man supposed to be smart, much more so than him? This kind of question was exactly the kind of frivolity Kyosuke had always disliked but tolerated for the sole purpose of diplomacy. Did he see Juzo as someone that required delicate handling and niceties now? “Like hell,” he says, before attempting to shift the topic. “What happened after…after the power went out?”

Munakata hesitates, gazing at him for a couple beats before answering. “Tengan-san was the mastermind. He wanted Mitarai-kun to play a video that would essentially brainwash the rest of the world into hope. Without the monitors, locks, or bangles, we successfully stopped them thanks to our reinforcements.

“Them?” he asks. Mitarai Ryota, as far as he remembered, was a meek, diminutive slip of a boy who looked permanently on the verge of collapse. It was a miracle he’d survived. 

“He streamed the video into the advance guard’s comm feed, turning them all against us. There were some former Ultimates among them, too. We would have died if not for Class 77.”

Class 77. Class 77 of Hope Peak’s Academy, more widely known as the Ultimate Despairs. This is even more improbable than Mitarai wanting to brainwash the world.

Munakata shifts, looking as uncomfortable as someone completely blank-faced can. “They escaped Jabberwock Island and somehow reverted back from their despair states, likely due to Naegi-kun’s intervention.”

Juzo doesn’t respond to this. He has no idea how to respond. Naegi Makoto, once again responsible for reeling the world back from the brink of despair. Who somehow managed to win a battle of ideologies with Munakata, who had shaped the world itself with his belief.

Munakata is silent too. The only sound in the room is the old analog clock mounted on the wall, incessantly moving forwards. Juzo watches it, watches the thinnest hand’s constant, rhythmic motion. This silence is not like the amiable ones that settled over them when they were alone, without Yukizome’s constant chatter. Those were relaxing, even though most of the time he could feel his heart fluttering at being alone with Munakata.

But that was before The Tragedy, before the world went to shit and they had to become soldiers before even being legally able to drink. He’d tried to focusing on those happier times to motivate himself to fight another day, and when that almost broke him he’d pushed them out of his memory and concentrated all his energy on the present.

Now, though - now he doesn’t know what to do anymore. What use is a boxer missing a hand and severely injured? And finding a different occupation is out of the question - turning a force of destruction to building a new world is like trying to ask a bomb to undetonate. It won’t fucking work.

He doesn’t vocalize any of this. Munakata doesn’t ask either, although Juzo is certain that he can tell there’s something troubling him. At some point, he had lost touch with his oldest, closest friend. At some point, he’d betrayed Munakata and almost died for it, yet here he was again, being given a second chance. Too bad he isn’t a tactician, doesn’t know what to do with it, can’t bridge the chasm that spans four feet between the bed and the armchair.

The legs of the chair screech across the linoleum as Munakata gets up and strides to the door with the grace becoming of a practiced sword fighter. Juzo feels like he should say something - wait, don’t go, I need to tell you something - but his mouth is dry and his throat closes up. 

Munakata pauses with one pale hand on the doorknob and looks back at Juzo. Maybe he sees the conflict in his eyes, or maybe he already knows, but his icy blue eyes thaw a little as he says, “Get some rest. I can’t have my right hand man out of commission forever.”

Juzo nods, a smirk rising to his face. Munakata acknowledges it with the tiniest twitch of his lips before leaving, and Juzo is left feeling like he's lost something important and found something else he has never seen or known before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today! I decided to celebrate by staying up till 5 am writing angst. Good life choices, Syna. As a result, this is completely unbeta'd. Even I haven't read it. So, I need a beta! If you want to volunteer, I will be so eternally grateful. I can be found at toramurakumo.tumblr.com shitposting and hollering into the void about anime and some other things.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated! Really. I live for that shit. Feed me.


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight, uncomfortably bright, almost blinds Juzo when he sets foot outside for the first time in weeks. It glares from a comically cloudless blue sky, as if mocking him with a semblance, a promise of perfection over an unfamiliar city. He narrows his eyes and puts a hand up to his face to block it out. The door - not even automatic, like any regular hospital should have been - slams shut behind him with a note of finality.

Much like the rest of the world, the area surrounding the hospital where a parking lot would normally have been is cracked and marred with scorch marks. It looks like a warzone, like something pulled out of a hellscape where the sky is ash and fire and smoky death, out of place under a cheery blue sky.

He picks his way through the rubble, refusing to look back at the hospital. It wasn’t much to look at anyways - a badly refurbished clinic used in the desperation of the war - but much worse than its shoddy state was the smell of sickness and antiseptics that lingered wherever the nurses allowed him, the blue-clad figures changing his bandages with movements like clockwork, reminding him of his wounds and the reasons, memories behind each one. 

He does miss the constant supply of painkillers, though. There is a small orange bottle in the pocket of his jacket, and it rattles with every step, asking to be used. Unfortunate that he can’t resort to those now, really. Munakata still needs him.

Juzo isn’t even sure about that. It has been weeks since the end of the Final Killing Game. Munakata has only visited twice, and one time was just to debrief him on the status of the Future Foundation and its rebuilding efforts. Nothing remotely personal was said, and Juzo is left to flounder and drown in the distance between them. He does not know how to bridge the gap, never did, and isn’t that why they’re here now? Munakata trusts him wholly, completely - he was completely prepared to die for him - but he couldn’t reciprocate enough and stood by while the apocalypse tore everything they knew to pieces.

At least Yukizome was a good person, an honest, kind one. He misses her optimism and courage, misses her kindness and maybe even that incurable neat freak impulse that set her on every unorganized surface with rabid fury. She gave Munakata ever reason to trust and love her, and he did, let her be a guiding light for his ideals when Juzo was relegated to dealing in blood and bruises in the shadows they cast.

That was all he was ever good for, silencing Despair whenever Munakata ordered him to. He was an attack dog on a leash, but now, even though the leash is fraying, the dog is missing its teeth and can’t pull away, or it will risk being torn to pieces in the streets. All he can do is hope his loyalty is enough to convince Munakata to keep him, useless though he is in this bright new world.

The sun beats down on the back of his coat, and the scrap of paper he holds unsteadily crinkles as his grip tightens. On it, typed, is a set of directions to the Future Foundation’s temporary living quarters and a room assignment. It is polite and neutral, like a business memo, or a government dispatch. He fucking hates it. During the war, all orders were given by call or radio, barked through crackling static and the sound of explosions, or delivered in person, because the Remnants were everywhere, watching, taking, forging, and nothing written could ever be trusted. The printout, for all its innocuous purposes, is just another reminder of how this is not the world he knows.

The streets are deserted, although there is considerably less wreckage obstructing the path. Buckets and wheelbarrows of broken concrete and crooked rebar line the sidewalks, signs of halted cleanup and reconstruction. If it has taken this long to just get the rubble off the streets, how long will rebuilding it all take?

Whatever divine force is still left must have some sense of mercy, because he sees nobody he recognizes on the way to the complex. A couple of suit-clad Future Foundation bureaucrats wander the streets, and when he passes them, their eyes widen and follow him until he glares back. When he does, they scuttle away, faces down and documents clutched tightly.

The complex turns out to be one of the less damaged hotels left. It is missing significant chunks, but the structure is largely intact, which is more than can be said of its surroundings. Closer inspection reveals that there isn’t even a front door, only a jagged hole lined with scorch marks, as if someone had tried to widen the entryway with an explosion.

Juzo stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks past the ragged concrete into the hotel’s dark interior. It is poorly lit by a few hanging lightbulbs, but at least there is electricity. The holes punched in the wall do a much better job of illuminating the musty space. Piles of broken glass are haphazardly strewn on the floor, as if someone tried cleaning up then found something more urgent to attend to.

More unfortunate than the mess is the people milling about the space. Many he only vaguely recognizes - former Ultimates, members of the Special Task Force, a few assistant branch heads - but there are also some painfully familiar faces. Byakuya Togami sits on a chunk of concrete, giving orders to a handful of large men in suits. Juzo is fine with him - Byakuya is not the type to initiate conversation unless absolutely necessary. 

Naegi Makoto and his lavender-haired companion are a different story. Juzo rather hopes they won’t notice him, but they are seated between him and the door marked with an image of stairs and it is inevitable. “Ah, Sakakura!” Naegi calls when he draws near, looking up from his conversation. 

Well, he doesn’t have a choice now, does he. “Naegi. Kirigiri,” he greets, coolly, careful to keep any indication of friendliness out of his voice. Even if Munakata has gone soft, even if they were right about Ultimate Despair, he can’t trust these two so easily. There are too many questions left. 

Naegi pretends not to notice his distrust. “How are you? It’s been a few weeks, we were all worried.” 

Worried? Why would they be worried? Whether he lived or died in the system control room would have made no difference in the outcome of the Game. But Munakata would expect him to maintain some semblance of civility. “I’m alive. Just got out of the hospital. And you? I thought Kirigiri…?” He lets his voice trail into a question, unspoken but hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. 

Neither Naegi nor Kirigiri is particularly fazed by the question. From Naegi, whose expression has flown from relief to concern to neutral in about a minute, this is surprising. From Kirigiri, who has shown maybe one emotion in the years he’s worked with her, it is not. It is her that answers. “Kimura had a drug for the poison in the bracelets. I took it knowing it was my only chance, but it only slowed the poison so that I was in a near-death state. Mikan Tsumiki of Class 77 found me and used an antidote of some kind.” Naegi looks a bit pained at her blunt description of her own pseudo-death and lightly puts a hand on her arm. 

“We all owe Tsumiki one, then.” Juzo isn’t sure how else to respond. He really never thought he’d ever have anything in common with Kirigiri Kyouko, and yet here he is. 

She hums in response, and Juzo turns to leave. Thank god for people that don’t insist on small talk. 

“Wait. Sakakura.” And then, of course, there are people like Naegi Makoto. Juzo half-turns back towards him and is surprised to find iron determination in olive eyes. Naegi hesitates, like he doesn’t know how to phrase what he wants to say.

“Thank you. For everything,” he finally says. Kirigiri nods, level lavender gaze on him as well.

Juzo takes a step back. He has done his best to not think about what happened in the halls of the facility, especially in his last hours of consciousness. He never wanted to be a hero in the eyes of the new world. All he ever wanted was for Munakata to live, more than he or Yukizome would have done.

He swallows down the rising guilt, the anxiety, the shame. “Yeah,” he chokes out despite the rising pressure in his chest, and flees to the safety of the door.

\-----

The stairwell is empty, thankfully, and lit only by yet another strategically-placed makeshift skylight. Juzo leans against the peeling wallpaper and takes a breath. Why did Naegi Makoto have to make everything more difficult, more complicated? Was emotional torture his way of taking revenge on Juzo for trying to kill him and his supporters? Funny, because Naegi of all people should understand intention. Everything Juzo did, he did for Munakata’s hope.

He unfolds the printed instructions again with some difficulty. His room, the black-on-white text says, is on the second floor, number 227.

The second floor corridor is mercifully deserted, and his footsteps echo off the walls despite the threadbare carpet. Room 227 is not far but not close either. It faces the now-defunct elevators, which are labeled as such in bright red spray paint. The door, like its fellows on either side and across the hall, is surprisingly intact. Even the electronic lock from its days as an actual hotel room is still there, even if it is completely defunct, gutted for batteries by the last group to occupy the hotel. Juzo grabs the handle and pushes the door open.

The room is spacious, a holdover from when it was used to make money for the hotel owners, not as a shelter for the remnants of society. An intact window overlooks what used to be the hotel parking lot, and sunlight filters in through the dirt-clouded glass. It casts dusty sunlight and shadows over the weathered furniture, making the entire scene look vaguely surreal.

It certainly feels surreal. He, Munakata, and Yukizome had lived in the dorms at the Future Foundation headquarters, small rooms that were very much like third-class ship cabins, designed not for comfort but instead to keep their inhabitants functioning yet another day. Back then they all had purpose, working towards the future and the salvation of hope. The missions were real. The blood and bruises from clash after clash with Ultimate Despair was real. The sleepless nights, the dead subordinates and friends, the constant news of more bombings, more death, more despair were real.

He tosses the thoroughly abused instructions onto the cramped, undersized desk and flops backwards onto the bed. A cloud of dust rises around him then disperses into the air. He stares up at the ceiling (blank white, save for the mold creeping its way out of a corner) and lets himself remember. 

The war was terrible in every way, but Juzo had a purpose and he was fucking good at it. And his friends were still around, intact, stable. Yukizome and Munakata were always touching, but they would never admit to being in a relationship. It was frustrating and yet still beautiful, a glimmer of hope, another reason to keep fighting. Even if he couldn’t be happy, at least his friends could and that was worth far more anyways. Munakata fell asleep in his office at least five times a week, and Juzo would play rock-paper-scissors with Yukizome at unholy hours in the morning to see who had to drag him to his room (not like either of them minded). Yukizome would flip shit over his wounds every time he returned from a mission, and he would humor her as she dragged him off to see Kimura. Munakata never did anything to stop her, although Juzo only ever asked him to as a joke.

Yukizome is dead, he reminds himself. Killed by Tengan in the name of despair disguised as hope, despite everything, despite her endless optimism, her love for Munakata. And Munakata has been broken and glued back together into something Juzo barely recognizes, but he is still beautiful in his pursuit of the future, even when anyone else would think he’s already found it. 

The ceiling blurs above him, and Juzo blinks hard to push the tears back before they fall. There is no space to mourn, he tells himself, he needs to be at Munakata’s side for whatever comes. But he is selfish, always has been, and that’s why they’re in this situation in the first place, isn’t it? He has failed over and over again, failed to properly eliminate despair, failed to stand up to Enoshima when they still had a chance, failed to save Chisa from her awful, untimely death. 

He drags a sleeve across his face and pushes himself off the bed. Just because he’s a shitty person doesn’t mean he can’t try to not be. There is somewhere he should be, and it isn’t in this hotel room, wasting away and giving in to his own microcosm of despair. 

The clock on the nightstand is blank, no sign of blinking red numbers. Chances are what electricity is available is considered a public resource, a wise move on someone’s part. The sun hangs low in the sky, anyways, but not low enough for it to be any more than a couple hours past noon. There is still time enough to at least drop by the makeshift Future Foundation headquarters.

He yanks the curtain closed, leaving the room in dusky shades of brown, and heads for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A consistent update schedule? From me, of all people? ...Actually, yeah, it is. I'm going to try and update every weekend, probably on Sundays, but if that doesn't happen (which is extremely likely oops) come pester me at toramurakumo.tumblr.com! Really. I am encouraging you to ask about updates.
> 
> Also, I still need a beta! Writing things at five in the morning then posting without reading isn't exactly conducive to quality, but if I tried to read it I'd probably lose my mind. If you're interested in helping, hmu please ^^
> 
> Like always, kudos and comments sustain and motivate me. Thank you^10000 if you've commented or left kudos, it made my day, regardless of when you're seeing this.


	3. Chapter 3

The hotel lobby is just as busy as it was when Juzo first passed through, with the notable absence of Kirigiri and Naegi. Without them, the space seems less familiar somehow, more impersonal. Like the difference between the Reserve Course and the Main Course at Hope’s Peak, so many years ago. Lack of talent, lack of distinction always meant invisibility, uselessness. 

 

He picks his way back towards the makeshift entrance. Afternoon sunlight streams in past jagged concrete. As he steps through it, past the shattered remains of the former entrance, it reminds him more and more of the light at the end of the tunnel people overuse in metaphors. From the dark interior, it had looked like hope of some kind, but up close, illuminated with unforgiving light, the street was really just a partially-cleaned mess, lined with broken buildings and cracked sidewalks.

 

And death was like that, too. He’d seen the end, had been so close in that control room before he’d woken up to white fluorescence and sharp sterility and more pain than he’s ever known. He’d thought that he was finally done, that he could go out on a meaningful note to make up for everything else, but his final wish, his final hope was a lie and here he is, still in the broken world, living an equally broken life. 

 

The end of his left arm aches, a pulsing throb as if in time with his thoughts, and he clenches his remaining hand into a fist, blunt nails digging into skin in a desperate effort to ignore the reminders lancing through his arm. It doesn’t work nearly as well as he’d hoped - the pain in his arm is bone-deep, soul-deep, and he will probably never truly get rid of it.

 

At least the sun is less blinding this time around. The streets do not look any better, though. If anything, they are worse, lengthening shadows highlighting every broken edge and pitfall. 

 

He turns away from the mess -- or tries too, it’s really everywhere, a haunting reminder of disaster and its aftermath -- and looks up and down the street. The only people in sight and most likely the only people in the city are Future Foundation employees in either dusty, wrinkled suits or battered body armor. They come and go, but they come and go in the same direction, like a line of ants.

 

It’s no question where they are headed, so Juzo falls into line with them. The workers do not meet his eyes, but they are not self-aware enough to avoid staring at his left arm. No words are said, but it feels like they are passing their judgement on him, but they don’t _know_ , they will never know his reasons. 

 

They can never know. 

 

He makes eye contact with one man, a business-type who looks like a relic from before Ultimate Despair whose gaze lingers too long. At least this one has the grace to look down at his shoes when confronted. But the sight of eyes blatantly avoiding his doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

He carries a growing emptiness with him as he approaches wherever the promenade is headed. Who is to say what awaits in the dilapidated building, probably the only other intact one left in the city, so different from the sleek former headquarters? And who is to say how Munakata will react to him, now, after everything?

 

\-----

 

If nothing else, at least the makeshift headquarters has electricity. Even if said electricity is provided by bulky generators with spiderwebs of cord hooked up to them, surrounded by dozens of people tapping away on laptops. Shocking, how far the Future Foundation has fallen, from the most modern holographic projection technology available to only whatever machinery can be crammed inside a suitcase.

 

With no familiar bright silver hair in sight, Juzo looks around the room for a way to the upper floors. He finds it in a door plastered with neon yellow caution stickers. Mercifully, as he weaves around clusters of people and wires, there is no Naegi Makoto to stop him and engage in awkward conversation. He does not want to be thanked again, he does not want this brave new world to acknowledge him, he does not want to be hailed as the hope that saved them all. Anyways, it wasn’t him, in the end.

 

The caution stickers turn out to be well-deserved, as the stairwell is only partially intact. The once-pristine tile is blackened and partially reduced to rubble -- it looks like someone set off a bomb in the corner. How the rest of the structure is still intact, he has no idea.

 

Careful to avoid the jagged edge, he makes his way up the stairs, not stopping until he reaches the last accessible floor. The door stands almost innocently, the light in its electronic lock long faded. He puts his hand on the metal bar and pauses, breathes deeply. Something ugly twists inside of him and whispers, _“When did you fuck up so badly that you can’t even face your best friend?”_

 

He grits his teeth and pushes the door open with more force than strictly necessary. 

 

On the other side, in a room that might have once been surrounded by glass panes and not just shattered pieces of glass on the ground, the new leadership of the Future Foundation awaits. The first thing Juzo notices is that there are far, far, fewer people than there were before. They are, once again, surrounding, a conference table, but it looks more like a friendly get-together than a meeting. There is Naegi, Kirigiri, Togami, Asahina, a man with massive hair, a handful of men and women he does not recognize, and, of course, Munakata, at the head of the table with a presence that controls the room even as the members talk freely amongst themselves.

 

There are too many missing, but he will not tally a body count. He can’t face that yet.

 

Kirigiri is the first to notice him and greets him a diplomatic, if not necessarily warm welcome. “Hello, Sakakura. It’s good to see you here.”

 

If eyes were not on him before, they certainly are now. Their gazes weigh on him like clinging hands dragging him into the water, and he almost wishes he wasn’t here.

 

Almost.

 

But Munakata is here, and he is really the reason Juzo showed his face at all, despite the pulsating pain in his arm and shoulder and abdomen that leaks through despite the lingering effects of whatever they gave him. Munakata is still here, and therefore Juzo is here with him, to do anything for him up to and including killing himself.

 

So he squares his shoulders and faces the room and says in the most neutral voice he can manage, “Hey, boss, I’m back.” And maybe he’s still only looking at Munakata, but that makes sense, right? After all, it’s only natural to be drawn to the most familiar, least hostile face in the room. 

 

At least it’s Munakata who answers him. His tone is stiffer than Juzo remembers, but he can overlook that in favor of the relief that relaxes his face almost imperceptibly. “Like Kirigiri said, welcome back. We were just reconvening.” Munakata gestures, lightly, almost casually to the unoccupied seat to his side.

 

Juzo brushes past the remnants of the Future Foundation’s leadership -- why are they still staring, shouldn’t they already know he’s alive? -- and takes his place at the table, to Munakata’s left. Even as the others settle into their places, the uncomfortable atmosphere doesn’t quite disperse.

 

“So,” Munakata begins, and the room snaps to attention as if controlled by an enchantment. There is a moment of chaos as conversations are cut short and people scramble for seats. Even in this shitty barely-upright shell of a building, Munakata still commands respect. “We need to discuss reassignments. The Foundation was already providing assistance to areas that needed it most, but we’ve lost many competent division leaders. Any ideas as to who can replace them?”

 

“What about their assistant leaders? For example, Togami has been perfectly competent,” Kirigiri suggests diplomatically, earning a nasty look from Togami nonetheless. 

 

“But some of them aren’t former Ultimates,” a bespectacled man says. “They won’t be as effective as if we appointed a handpicked group with specialized talents.” 

 

“Don’t place so much value on talent! That’s what got us into this mess in the first place,” Naegi cuts in, and Juzo is reminded of a day many years ago and a Reserve Course student that spent his days staring at the Main Course tower. A student that later became the leader of the Remnants in the wake of Enoshima’s death. 

 

“Naegi’s right,” Asahina says. “We should be valuing experience over talent.”

 

“No amount of experience can make up for natural talent and leadership.”

 

“But then we lose respectability! Nobody will support an organization that favors former Ultimates that much.”

 

“You’re not going to get respect if you can’t get anything done!”

 

It is a timeworn debate, brought up over and over again without fail whenever the Future Foundation attempts to get anything done. Juzo tunes out the specifics . He’s heard -- and argued -- it all before. 

 

Munakata doesn’t speak, either. Hell, they were in those meetings together, before. They exchanged exasperated glances while Yukizome kicked their shins under the table and smiled. This time, though, Yukizome is dead, and Munakata does not look at him.

 

Naegi and Friends win the argument in the end, unsurprisingly. It is decided that the assistant heads of divisions without leaders will be promoted and everything else will remain as it was. 

Which would mean that Juzo still has responsibility for the Sixth Division. He misses working in the field, the thrill of the hunt and the battle. It was always too deadly to be fun, but it was better than being locked up in a room in front of a computer all day.

 

But what use would the military division be in this brave new world, free from Despair’s lurking threat?

 

“Togami, Kirigiri, notify the assistant division leaders of their new responsibilities. If there is nothing else that needs to be addressed immediately, the meeting will be adjourned.” Munakata looks steadily around the room. Nobody contradicts him. “In that case, we reconvene tomorrow. Good night.”

 

The chatter from before picks up again, enchantment broken. In the scramble to gather papers and bags and leave the room that follows, Munakata turns to Juzo. “Could you stay a few minutes? There’s something you need to know. 

 

Well, it isn’t like Juzo has anything he wants to do otherwise. And even if he did, this is more important, whatever it is. “Yeah, sure,” he says, keeping his tone casual so he doesn’t betray any anticipation.

 

Munakata waits until the last of the others filter out, watching as Kirigiri delicately shuts the door behind her, before speaking again. “About the Final Killing Game,” he begins, carefully. “I admit I have not told you everything.”

 

He takes a deep breath before speaking, gaze focusing on a point on the table in front of where his hands are clasped. “Did -- did you know about Yukizome?” he asks, after a couple beats of silence.

 

It is not at all like Munakata to be unsure in his words, and it sets Juzo on edge. “What about her?”

 

Munakata’s tone betrays nothing, but his knuckles are turning white with pressure. “She was, apparently, a Remnant of Despair.”

 

No. Impossible.

 

Juzo doesn’t realize he’s said anything out loud until Munakata shakes his head and says, quietly, “The other Remnants told me. She fell into despair with the rest of them, the day of The Tragedy.”

 

Memories of that day, rain and a smile of bright white knives and blood in his mouth and on his knuckles and regret and guilt and the feeling of being torn apart, blur together with years of Yukizome, all the time they’ve spent together and her unrelenting optimism and support. She couldn’t have been Despair, she was with them throughout the entire war, someone would have noticed --

 

But nobody did. And in the end, it is really all on him, because he wasn’t the one madly in love with her, he should have noticed. Hell, he could have saved her the day of the Tragedy, if he hadn’t been a selfish piece of shit and given in to his insecurity. 

 

Another death on his hands, another loss in a war against a dead girl.

 

He sucks in a breath and tries to compose himself. Munakata doesn’t need to see this on top of what he must be going through. “I. I’m sorry,” he manages, and he means it.

 

Munakata looks up from the table, finally. His remaining eye is endlessly sad, but clear and focused. “Thank you. It isn’t your fault,” he says, and the words are simple but the message is not and Juzo understands, knows that their friendship is what it has always been, that the Munakata next to him is not the one from the hallway during the Killing Game, that he has a place here at his best friend’s side.

 

It is times like these that he is reminded how much he loves Munakata, for his perception, for his understanding, for his kindness, even if nobody else can tell.

 

It is also times like these that he is reminded that he is living a lie. Yukizome’s death, Enoshima’s rise, they were all his fault, and Munakata has no fucking idea.

 

He needs to come clean one of these days. Anything that he loses will be something he never deserved in the first place. Munakata doesn’t deserve to be lied to. 

 

But now isn’t the time, because he is rising from the table with a world-weary sigh and Juzo is following. “We need to look to the future now,” he says. “That’s what Yukizome would have wanted, before.”

 

“Yeah. No doubt.”

 

When they leave the room, Juzo doesn’t miss how he pushes a little too hard on the door from a little too close. A common symptom of no depth perception. 

 

They descend the stairs in almost comfortable silence. The building is nearly empty now, with only a few stragglers still packing up their work. Exhausted as they look, they don’t even bother acknowledging their leaders with anything more than quick glances.

 

Outside, the moon hangs in the sky and casts both light and shadows onto the street. Munakata seems to glow in the moonlight, pale as he is. Juzo does not let his eyes linger too long -- it is second nature now, after all these years, even though Munakata is as beautiful as he’s ever been.

 

Munakata walks through the hotel lobby with him, following slightly behind as he picks his way around the detritus on the ground. The space is dark and deserted, absent the clusters of people that gave it life.

 

The stairwell is tiny and cramped and definitely not enough space for two grown men.When they get to the second floor, Munakata follows him out into the hallway. Surprised, Juzo turns to face him as they walk. “You’re on this floor, too, then?”

 

Munakata nods his confirmation. “All the remaining Division Heads and some of the higher-ranking members are here, including Naegi, Kirigiri, and Togami. I’m in room 213.” He gestures to a nondescript door on their left, marked with the number. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

 

It reminds him of a different time, when they huddled in badly-constructed tents and on rock-hard mattresses in questionable buildings in stake-outs and missions and made pacts to not succumb to the cold or enemy bullets or despair while the others slept. “You too. Survive the night,” Juzo responds, with words he hasn’t used in months.

 

The risk in referencing the war is worth the small, nostalgic smile that lights up Munakata’s face as he opens the door. Juzo’s heart twists a little, and he can’t help but smile back.

 

He doesn’t manage to wipe the happiness off his face until he gets back to his own room. It is no more impressive than it was earlier. The curtains are still closed, leaving the space almost completely dark. Juzo feels his way over to the window, careful not to bump into anything with his arm, and pulls them open. Outside, the city forms hulking shapes in the darkness, casting shadows onto the streets, but moonlight filters in, casting enough light to see by.

 

He drapes his jacket over the worn office chair. Something rattles in the depths of the pockets, and he reaches into it to find the little bottle of painkillers. It stares at him, beckoning, and he pointedly sets it on the desk unopened. He’ll take his reality over giving in and escaping into drugged amnesia any day.

 

Suddenly exhausted, he lets himself fall back onto the bed. Things are happening so quickly, so unpredictably. He closes his eyes and, involuntarily, thinks of Munakata. Losing Yukizome has hit him hard, and there is nothing for him to wreak bloody vengeance on. Juzo understands -- hell, he remembers that exact same frustration, the day Naegi Makoto emerged from the rubble of Hope’s Peak High School with news of Enoshima’s death. He’d been relieved, yes, but he’d also been angry. How dare Naegi take his vengeance from him, he who needed so desperately? 

 

But really, Yukizome’s death is his fault -- Munakata only said it wasn’t because he didn’t know. And if dying again is what it takes to save Munakata, Juzo will gladly do it. He cannot lie any more than he already has. He needs to clear this up for good. Tomorrow, he swears to himself. Tomorrow he will tell Munakata everything, come what may. The outcome won’t matter.

 

Yet no matter how much he repeats that, he can’t seem to shake the fear of inevitably losing his best friend, of watching the one person he’s ever truly loved turn on him for a second time. Memories of a katana blade, white-hot pain, and Munakata’s cold gaze follow him into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm so sorry, weekly updates were a lie. I severely underestimated how much I have my life together. Maybe this particularly long chapter will appease you...?
> 
> ...I actually don't like it much. I can't write dialogue for shit, my style is too poetic and pretentious. If there are any glaring flaws (especially with continuity - this was written in like. three different sessions), please tell me and I will fix them and desperately hope nobody else noticed.
> 
> Also thanks to [braves](archiveofourown.com/users/braves) for looking through the first half for me! I'm posting this right now, though, because I crave the rush of getting something done and sealing it with the 'Post' button.
> 
> Like always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. I have all the natural motivation of a sea cucumber. Lend me your strength, friends.
> 
> Next week (lol yeah right): Angst! Lots of angst! Also maybe a scatterplot of word count vs. time to sate my own curiosity. Look forwards to it!


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